Engaged in Passion (A Bridal Favors Novella) (14 page)

"Uh, no thank you, ma'am. I don't drink, as a rule."

She nodded as she entered their house. "Very well said. I, however, absolutely
do
drink. The butler will be here in a moment. Francine, please have him open a bottle of brandy for me. In the meantime, I shall be but a moment upstairs." She waived airily at them, then began climbing the stairs, barely even stopping to strip out of her cloak and gloves.

Anthony stared after her, his mind whirling. There was no figuring out the woman: excruciatingly perceptive one moment, blithely ignorant the next. "Francine," he said, "do you think your mother is acting odd?"

Francine looked up the stairs, but quickly shook her head. "Mama's thinking something. I have no idea what. Her mind is always on ten things at once. Everyone believes Papa is the brilliant mind—"

"But your mother plays a key role in his success. Yes, I had already guessed that."

She flashed him a wan smile. "It doesn't matter. We haven't the time. I was hoping she would help—" Then she abruptly bit off her words before turning to the butler who was just then coming down the hallway as stiff and proper as any good English butler would. "Thank you," Francine said to the man. "You may go now. I'll take care of the candles."

The butler's brows arched, but he didn't speak. He seemed to consider his options for a moment, but in the end, he bowed and withdrew. Anthony recognized the impropriety of the situation, but Francine didn't give him time to object. She tugged him quickly into the side parlor and shut the door. He might have said something, but the moment the doors clicked shut, she spun around and threw herself into his arms.

There was nothing he could say then. He felt her trembling in his arms and the tight grip of her hands on his coat. He held her close, his thoughts at sea. Francine seemed almost excited, and yet their situation had never been bleaker. Her mother refused to help, and her father had already declared her engaged. So he buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply as he tried for a solution. But he just couldn't find one.

His livelihood depended on her father. His family's livelihood depended upon the Richards as well. He would not propose to a woman if he knew that he could not support her. And proposing to Francine would mean they all ended up in the poorhouse in a very short time.

"Don't cry," he whispered to his love.

She drew back. "Cry? I'm not crying! I'm angry!"

He blinked back his own tears to look at her. She wasn't crying. If anything, she looked very resolved. But she was trembling.

"Anthony, just answer one question for me. Do you love me?"

His breath left his chest, and his mouth went dry. Before he could frame his answer, she rushed on.

"I know we haven't spoken of it. Not directly, at least. We've talked about how we would live, about how easily my father could ruin you. But I have to know, Anthony. Do you—"

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I love you. I have from the very first moment I saw you playing with Ginger. I love your voice, your face. I love the way you laugh when you are excited and the way you snort when you're frustrated."

"I don't snort!"

"Of course not. But you blow forcefully out of your nose when something angers you."

"That's not snorting!" she huffed. Strongly. Out of her nose. And then she realized what she had done, and her expression softened. "I love you too, Anthony."

"I would do anything for you, Francine. I would. But I can't ask for your hand if I know we'll end up in Debtors' Prison by the end of the year."

She nodded slowly, her mind obviously working hard. "But you have clients who aren't beholden to my father."

He nodded. "It's not enough. And getting fired by your father would be a very public thing. I wouldn't get new clients easily, and I might get sacked from those I already have."

"But I could be baking. I could sell my tarts and things."

He nodded even as he dashed her hopes. "We would need a kitchen for you to work. And if you weren't living here, I don't know where—"

"Never mind," she said, and he heard the resolve in her voice. "Will you do one thing more for me then? Will you kiss me?"

Of course he would. But he wouldn't rush it. Not if this could end up being the last time they touched. So he stroked his thumb along her jaw, memorizing the silky sweet texture of her skin, seeing the way her breath caught and her mouth opened. She wet her lips and his groin tightened. What he wouldn't give to have her in his life forever.

She stretched forward onto her toes, and he took the invitation. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close as his mouth descended to hers. He took her mouth then, as desperately and completely as he wanted to take her whole body. She surrendered easily to him, but there was still fire in her. Her tongue dueled with his. Her hands mussed his hair and then slipped to his coat.

"Take this off," she gasped as she shoved at it.

"Francine," he groaned. If he started disrobing now, he might never stop.

"Oh, never mind," she said. "There isn't time anyway."

He nodded and tried to step away, but she abruptly grabbed his cravat and yanked it apart. He was half-strangled in the process, so he grabbed her hand and quickly did apart the ends. And while he was working, she started pulling pins out of her hair. She had in only a few near her face, so very quickly she was able to shake out her beautiful locks.

But she didn't stop there. She reached behind her, and with a sudden jerk, she ripped two buttons of her dress off.

"What are you doing?" he gasped as she did it again.

"Why did she sew this so strong?" she grumbled.

"Francine!"

Then she flashed him a grin before she opened her mouth and started screaming. "Oh! Oh my! Oh yes, Anthony!"

Oh God, that wasn't frightened screaming, that was badly acted screaming. What was—? He was just working out her plan when she jerked on her bodice, apparently trying to rip it apart down the center. It didn't work. Again the fabric was too strong, but she did manage to twist things askew. One of her breasts bulged, but thankfully didn't escape.

And all the while, she was screaming. "That feels so wonderful, Anthony. More! More!"

"Stop it, Francine!" he said, rushing forward to grab her hands. "This isn't the way."

"Ow! Oh, owow! It hurts!"

He looked down startled, his hands quickly releasing her wrists. But he couldn't possibly have hurt her.

"I am deflowered now!" she bellowed.

"You are not!" he cried. "Francine, your father will kill me!"

And on those fateful words, the parlor door burst open. Butler, mother, and—bloody hell—Mr. Richards came storming in.

Chapter 12

"What is the meaning of this?" Mr. Richards demanded.

"Sir—" Anthony began, scrambling for an explanation that would sound reasonable. But there wasn't anything, and it didn't matter because Francine spun around, her hair flying wild as she gasped.

"Papa! I am ruined! I must marry Anthony or my reputation is destroyed!"

To the side, Mrs. Richards sighed and rolled her eyes. Then she turned and gestured to the butler, shooing him out the door. He went with speed, closing the door behind him, though given the way Francine was shouting, the entire household would hear every word.

"I cannot marry Lord Hetherset now! Oh, the shame!"

"Stop that caterwauling this instant!" bellowed her father. His words were for Francine, but his eyes burned into Anthony's.

"I will not!" she cried. "I'm overset! I'm ruined!"

"You're nothing of the sort," he snapped. "And you, sir, will be whipped."

Francine's voice took on a note of pure panic. "You will not! He's to be my husband."

"You are sacked, young man," Mr. Richards continued. "And your father as well. And I'll see to it that neither of you ever works again!"

"Papa! I'm ruined!" Francine snapped, stepping forward. "I have no choice but to marry Anthony!"

Now he turned to her, his fists tight, his face red with fury. "You will be silent, you idiot girl!"

That was the moment it all changed. Before, the whole thing had felt like a desperate farce to Anthony. But the moment father turned on daughter, everything became very real, very fast. And Anthony reacted very quickly.

He stepped firmly between the two. He spoke as calmly as possible, but he made sure there was steel in his voice. "You will not harm her," he said quietly. "You have every reason to be angry, but you will not hurt her."

The man's eyebrows lowered, and Anthony saw murder in his eyes. Mr. Richards's fists lifted, and Anthony braced himself. He had no wish to fight. He hated any type of fisticuffs, and the idea of hitting an older man appalled him. But Mr. Richards was no lightweight. He was a large man overcome with fury. If that meant he had to hit someone to get past the moment, then that someone would be Anthony, not Francine.

So Anthony lifted his chin, opening his arms as the target. "Take out your rage on me if you must—"

"No!" cried Francine.

"—but you will not touch her!"

"Why, you bloody cur!" Mr. Richards bellowed as he attacked. The blows came down hard and punishing. Anthony blocked as many as he could, but even that was painful, knocking him back on his heels over and over again. He did not throw any punches, and ridiculously enough, that seemed to infuriate the man all the more.

"Stop it!" screeched Francine from the side. Anthony barely heeded her except to note her place in the room. He needed to steer her father in the opposite direction.

It wasn't hard. Mr. Richards got in a blow to his ribs that left him gasping as he stumbled backwards. Anthony kept his feet—barely—then adjusted his guard. But it was a losing battle. Before long, there would be another blow that snuck through. And another.

He tried to grab the man, to hold him as wrestlers did and stop the attack. But Mr. Richards was strong, and he was not fooled so easily. In the end, all that happened was that Anthony received a punishing blow to his shoulder. And now something was very wrong with his left arm.

Bang!

The sound was like a cannon going off at close range. It took a moment for him to locate the source of the gunfire.
Gunfire?
A moment beyond that to process that Mr. Richards had stopped attacking to stare slack-jawed at his wife.

Mrs. Richards stood just inside the doorway and was now calmly reloading a fowling gun. Anthony hurriedly looked to Francine. Thankfully, she appeared unharmed though she was staring at the shot marks in the wall.

"Do I have your attention now?" Mrs. Richards asked calmly. "Or do I need to aim closer to someone?" From the look in the woman's eye, she wasn't feeling particular as to whom she would shoot.

"What are you doing?" Mr. Richards cried, though not—thank God—in an angry tone. He seemed more confused than anything else. "The neighbors will have heard that."

At that moment, Francine seemed to come alive. "The neighbors!" she cried. Then she grabbed a lamp and quickly threw it through the window. The glass and the lamp shattered with a deafening clatter.

Then she ran forward, drawing breath into her lungs. Anthony lunged, catching her around the ribs though his shoulder screamed in pain at the tackle. Whatever she planned, he was terrified that her mother might misfire and hit something vital by mistake.

They tumbled to the ground, but Francine still managed to get her words out.

"I am debauched!"

"You are not!" all three of them shouted at once.

And then there was total silence as Francine glared at everyone at once. Then she spoke, her voice ringing clear even if she wasn't screaming.

"I will tell everyone. Lord Hetherset will be forced to end the engagement."

Anthony sighed. "This is not the way."

"Of course this is the way!" she cried. "Father won't listen otherwise."

"But I haven't..." Anthony's voice trailed away. In truth, he
had
debauched her. Just not completely. And not in this parlor. But two days ago, he had done some very ignoble things with her.